


Building God

by La Femme Victorienne (CarmelaCamilla)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmelaCamilla/pseuds/La%20Femme%20Victorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wars can leave many survivors, in more ways than one. Forced onto the streets, Christine finds herself on the footsteps of L'étoile de Passage, dying. Erik allows her to stay, though the growing voice of concern tells him otherwise. Despite all this, they are drawn to each other. But the life of a whore has never allowed room for petty things like love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Building God

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! While this is far from my first fanfiction, it is the first one on this site (something I'm incredibly excited about). I would love to thank my friends Emma and Christine for helping me figure this story out, and I hope that you enjoy it as well. I will try to keep updates regular, so I will be planning to post a schedule soon. So please, let me know what you think!

 

Christine stumbled onto the cobblestone, able to catch herself before she hit the ground. Her hands stung from the sharp rocks and rough stone, but she ignored it as she managed to duck her head as a small bag went flying to the wall across from her. “You can’t do this!” she said, hurrying to the figure standing in the door’s light. She grasped onto the handle, looking into the man’s eyes. “Monsieur, please. _Please_ you can’t toss me out like this. This is my home; I’ve lived here since I was a little girl!”

“Christine, I don’t want to do this—”

“Then why? Monsieur Minott, you’ve lived here longer than I, you looked after all of us. Please, don’t throw me out. I beg of you, I’ve no where to go, no one to take me in. I’ll _die_ by the first snowfall.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” he snapped. Christine shrank at his words, tears already falling, making her cheeks shine in the light from inside. He sighed, stepping outside as she cried. “Christine…”

“Leave me!” she shrieked, her stomach twisting in sickening knots as she snatched up her reticule. “You would…would _abandon_ me—all of us—and leave us to survive by any means! And in times such as _this_ —”

Monsieur Minott grabbed Christine, his large hands squeezing her arms as he held her firmly in place. “Christine, why do you think I must do this? This isn’t my choice!”

“Let go of me!”

“Then listen to me!” he shouted, his hands shaking slightly as Christine pushed herself away. Her arms instinctively wrapped around her frail body, fear and anger threatening to overwhelm her. “Christine…” She turned her head from him, wiping the tears away in the vain hope he wouldn’t see. “Christine, you said it yourself. These are different times; drastic measures are being called, and they’re out of my control.”

Shaking now, Christine bite her lip, refusing to cry after already subjecting herself to such humiliation. It was one thing to plead, another to _beg_. “B-But surely you— _I_ —I could speak to Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André,” she stammered, her voice trembling and weak. “They’ve owned the Opera for years; they’ll know what to do. They…they can’t just throw out everyone, this is our _home_. This is—”

“Christine,” Monsieur Minott whispered. She stopped, clutching her purse against her breast as she stared at the old man. With the light behind him, his white hair seemed to glow: an angel sent down to cast her to her death.

“ _Please_ …”

“This isn’t my choice, Christine,” he continued. “I don’t have any control over this, and neither do the managers. This is the lieutenant’s orders. Everyone is to leave, even me. We must make room for the soldiers, the supplies, and everything else. We can’t tuck our little ballerinas in with the gunpowder barrels.”

Tears spilled over her brown eyes, turning into ugly sobs as Monsieur Minott held her. “Please don’t turn me away, Monsieur,” she wept, holding onto him tightly. “I haven’t much money, no where to go, no one will take me in. Please, Monsieur. You’re all I have _left_.”

“You have more than this old man,” he said, gently pulling away from her. “You have some money. Find a cheap inn and stay there until you can find some honest work. It won’t take long, I promise you.” He let go of her, stepping back so that he was once again by the door. “Goodbye, Christine.”

She stepped forward, stopping the door before it could close, her eyes wide with fear as her whole world was being shut against her. “Monsieur...what will become of me?”

“I don’t know,” he said, remorseful. “But I know that you are strong, and hardworking. You may not have the life of the patrons we use to entertain, but you will be no worse off than if you had stayed here for the rest of your life.” His clenched his hand, stepping back once more until he was surrounded by the soft light of the candles. “Goodbye, Christine,” he whispered, shutting the door firmly before Christine could respond. She gaped at the door, almost willing it to open and for the light to accept her into its familiar embrace. But the door refused to yield.

The darkness seemed to press against her, invading her and penetrating whatever weak defenses she had. The lights from the streets were hardly a comfort, creating leering shadows that moved and grabbed. And the silence of it all, beating against her eardrums, causing her to panic as stories told late at night in the dormitories came flooding back in sporadic details. A painted lip there, a torn dress hem there; they were women who painted themselves for the pleasure of others and lived in the gutters of the street, without a God and desperate for their next meal. Desperate enough to fall…

“ _Monsieur Minott_!” she screamed, pounding her fist violently against the door. “Please, Monsieur, let me in!” No answer. “ _Please_! I can’t—I can’t, not with no where to go! Please, Monsieur,” she sobbed, “ _let me in_.”

The door never moved. Nor did it when she screamed louder, or when blisters and cuts began to form on her hands. No one came to answer, and Christine knew, despite her pleading, that no one would.

She grasped the golden cross around her neck, sobbing hysterically. She prayed that Monsieur Minott would change his mind and come back for her, or that someone would pass by and hear her. But as the bell rung, telling the empty streets of the hour that had passed, Christine knew it was hopeless. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, her eyes burned from the tears, and her hands were now bleeding.

Her legs shook terribly, but she managed to make her way out onto the main street. She once again held the necklace in her hand as she stared up at the grand entrance to the Opera Populaire…to her home. Her eyes closed, her lips kissed the dirtied cross as she prayed it would not be the last time she saw it.

And it was with her parting prayer—a silent, hopeful plea—that she turned from her home and into the streets of Paris. All that she had fit into her mother’s reticule: twenty-five francs, a hair comb that also belonged to her mother, and a small, tattered Bible. Her entire world, all held in a purse, all held tightly in her small, trembling hand.

 


End file.
